


Summer

by firstblush



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstblush/pseuds/firstblush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is too warm. Nothing happens. More pre-slash than actual slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scuffin_MacGuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/gifts).



Summer has arrived in Kirkwall, and it comes with a vengeance. The proximity to the ocean fails to temper the heat on this occasion, rather it has succeeded only in thickening the air, weighting it down with a dampness that sticks to skin in an instant film of sweat. Sebastian finds himself staring rather enviously in Isabela's direction. Bare armed and bare legged, Isabela appears undaunted by the challenges of a merciless sun, more preoccupied with flirting with Hawke than trying to stay cool.

Merrill too looks better suited for the weather, donned in light weight cloth, though she has taken shelter under the shadow of a nearby building, quite content to stay there for however long it takes Hawke to sort out her business with a Lowtown vendor. Even Anders has left behind his long coat, so that all that remains draped across bony shoulders is his too-worn, too-stained-to-still-be-considered-white shirt. Yet, its thin, flimsy material only betrays how fiercely Anders responds to the warmth, sweat-soaked in what most would surely call unflattering patches of darker fabric. Nevertheless it is clear to Sebastian that he alone is suffering the burden of inexperience, or perhaps just impulsive foolishness, which has led him to not swerve from his typical routine in answering Hawke's beck and call, dressing up in full armour, fur-lined coat included, and is now stuck stewing in a prison of metal and leather.

But there is little that can be done. Sebastian resigns himself to ignoring the way the heat presses in on him, lodges in his throat with every breath. Dignity must be somehow maintained, and consequently no stripping off of clothing in the streets is to be had. Sebastian tries to focus instead on cooler thoughts, winter snowstorms, white-capped mountain tops. After all, hasn't he been taught the benefits of disciplined meditation, heard of the feats accomplished throughout Thedas by dedicated sisters, and has it not over the years shifted him from restless, lascivious wastrel to a brother at peace with a quiet, anonymous life? It apparently does not, however, manage to drop one's body temperature in the face of bright sunshine beating down on skin and the sickening snare of humidity.

"Winter snow, mountain-tops," Sebastian mutters persistently in the midst of deep focus, but this unfortunately manages to catch Anders attention.

"What did you say?" His voice startles Sebastian back into the present.

"I was only trying to think of something other than this heat," Sebastian explains lamely, but this still wins him a skeptical glare. He isn't certain that Anders hasn't misheard his mumbling to say something to the effect of "down with all mages."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't insisted on wearing that ridiculous armour," Anders sniffs his absurdly large nose, and Sebastian, not at his most amiable, finds himself stepping forward.

"This armour was a gift," but he stops there, feet somehow feeling a little unsteady, the air too heavy to successfully be breathed. And Sebastian discovers, upon blinking, that Anders now has one hand clapped on his shoulder and the other entwined with his own. Anders' fingers are eerily cold, this detail so out-of-place and disconnected from Sebastian's otherwise overheated world that he cannot do anything but stare down at them.

"Gift or not, it was made for battlefields, not standing around..."

"It is very clear then that you know nothing of my father," Sebastian finds himself saying, his voice oddly light. "Standing around in this armour and looking decorously impressive would have been far more preferable to him than getting one's hands dirty in an actual fight, like a common soldier."

"Standing around," Anders says as though Sebastian never interrupted," _in this heat_. But I suppose," and here, Anders sighs very loudly, brimming with all the exasperation of a man faced with some needlessly tedious but nonetheless unavoidable chore, "since you insist on wearing it, I'll have to be the one to make sure you don't end up with heat stroke. That’s all we need. You, fainting, forcing us to carry your idiotic, unconscious, armour-weighted body back to the chantry."

He drops his grip from Sebastian's shoulder, and now both his hands are holding Sebastian's own. Still all Sebastian can manage to do is dazedly watch in silent fascination, and then suddenly, there is a shock of cold as Anders fingers go from cool to absolutely frigid, the chill snaking up the length of Sebastian's arms and then crashing over his whole body until he gives one visible shiver, the experience best likened in his mind to boyhood days of jumping recklessly into icy lake waters.

The joy he feels at his relief only spares a second for him to wonder why Anders has not been making use of such a skill on himself, before realizing perhaps the man has, that the half-drenched quality of Anders' shirt may not be due to sweat at all, but condensation, like the presence of morning dew as summer heat disperses under the setting sun. Curiosity tempts Sebastian to reach out, to investigate more thoroughly the dampness of cloth, with curls of hair pressed up between half-translucent cotton, but their interlocked hands make that quite impossible, and it is likely for the best that the impulse has been avoided as Sebastian doubts very much that Anders would appreciate such an uninvited exploration.

"Oh," he breathes instead, "that is a useful trick." His words falling between awe and gratitude, and Anders hearing none of it.

"The only _trick_ there is me not freezing you into a solid block." But perhaps the disapproval in Anders' voice is not uncalled for when even the smallest of tasks in magic have the potential to become dangerous for someone without any mastery over it, or perhaps, Sebastian, so glad for even a moment to be free of the heat, is only too willing to give Anders the benefit of the doubt.

"I only meant," Sebastian begins, before correcting himself to something more simple. "Thank you."

Propriety, in a courtly setting, may have dictated certain expectations of a responding "you're welcome" or assurances that no trouble was truly taken, but Anders offers none of that. He only sniffs again, though Sebastian finds himself thinking this time, Anders' nose really isn't that large, and if it is, it only too well suits his face, as much as that mocking quirk that Sebastian notices playing at the corners of his mouth.


End file.
